fed it. "Every feature perfect Exquisite, by George! Exquisite!" was his completed judgment.
Not a criticism occurred to him.
"If I could ever be interested in a woman again, it would be some woman like Miss Boland," he conceded, as being loftily fair with himself; and then, from remembering how she looked, he passed on to remembering things she had said.
"'Peace-time slacker!' There's a phrase for you. Ouch!" Henry sat up abruptly. "She plugged me dead center with that. Or—did she?" He paused to ponder, but presently was on the move in a sort of brown study, down over the hill, across the golf links by the most direct route and headed for the parking grounds where any number of opportunities to ride downtown would present themselves.
"There he goes now," said a voice upon the clubhouse veranda; and John Boland—Old Two Blades himself—fastidiously dressed as always, but with rugged strength in every line of him, lifted his large head with its domed forehead, its triangle face with recessed eyes, long sharp nose, clamped lips and spiked and knobbed chin and gazed, at least mildly interested, where Henry Harrington, with that free, marching stride which would be his through life, spurned the gravel under his heels.
"He's a clean-looking young man," conceded Old Two Blades. "I've always noticed that about him. Any bad habits?"
"Probably," said Judge Allen drily, "but he's got a great way with a jury or a witness!"
"Good at handling people, heh?" roused J. B., with no effort now to conceal a sudden access of interest;
